Once Upon A Car Crash
by tinahhdee
Summary: Fairy Tale AU!/crack!fic: "As the king apparent, one of the many tasks you need to accomplish before you ascend to the throne is to procure yourself a mate."
1. Once Upon a Car Crash

**Title:** Once Upon a Car Crash: A Love Story That Came Dangerously Close to a Concussion

**Fandom:** Teen Wolf

**Pairings:** Derek/Stiles

**Disclaimer:** Teen Wolf is this show on MTV. Unfortunately, I like watching it with slash goggles on.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** _Fairy Tale _AU, utter crack!, swearing, gross misunderstanding of monarchic social structure, bastardization of fairy tale Happily Ever After's and the usual crak!fic hi-jinx

**Author's Note: **Took a tiny break from the travelin' show 'verse. I needed to sort out a couple of things for the story. For now though I give y'all this little brain fart. It's a one-shot. A ~8000 word one-shot, IDEK. I hope you guys like it!

Unbeta'd all mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>Summary:<strong>

"_As the king apparent, one of the many tasks you need to accomplish __**before**__ you ascend to the throne is to procure yourself a mate."_

* * *

><p><strong>-1-<strong>

For the record, he really, really, really, _really_ didn't want to go but his uncle, Peter Hale who also happens to be the kingdom's Reagent Head, royally urged him to seek counsel from the court psychic. And immediately, too or else. Whatever _or else_ entailed was beyond Derek but knowing his uncle, _or else _can't be anything good.

And so the Wolf Prince reluctantly went.

**x-x-x-x**

Derek was surprised to find that the _psychic_'s nook looked little less like a lair and little more like an office.

He took in the many polished dark wood bookshelves and wide furniture, angular and sleek, accentuated by twining wrought iron designs. The whole place smelled like new leather and the streaming morning light from the ceiling-high, glass windows on the East face gave it a very professional feel.

"This isn't what I was expecting," the prince observed, absently.

"What _were_ you expecting, then, Your Highness? Crystal balls, incents, candles? Heavy velvet tapestry adorned with golden tassels? Surely not, if I ever had a say in the matter, which I _do_. Besides, it's the 21st century. I too have to get with the times. I may be a lot of things but _obvious_ isn't one of them. Nor tacky. Please, come in."

The man (who basically appeared out of nowhere) was slim and very pale. His dark hair was combed to one side and instead of the whole robe-and-turban shtick he was dressed immaculately in a tailored three-piece suit with an embroidered tie (which was about the only thing remotely eclectic about him.)

"I'm Adrian Harris, Court Psychic extraordinaire. Have a seat." And he gestured Derek to one of the giant chairs on either side of his desk.

The leather of the prince's jacket and the leather of the seat squeaked together in protest as he languidly sunk down. His posture was lax and he tried his damndest to convey how badly he didn't want to be there by way of glaring alone. How pointless this whole charade was and that he hopes they'd hurry it up soon because he has an appointment for—

"For a car tune up, yes, yes. That's all well and good. I assure you I'll let you get to that in a minute but for now your palm, please?"

Derek did a double take as his jaw dropped, mouth hanging open. Did this guy seriously just read his mind?

"Yes. But a mind reading isn't what you came here for. What you were _sent _here for. Now please, palm, Your Highness?"

The Wolf Prince slowly offered up his right hand, palm up. His eyebrows still in close proximity with his hair line.

"As the king apparent, one of the many tasks you need to accomplish _before_ you ascend to the throne is to procure yourself a mate. Wolf mates are very hard to find. But I hear speed dating or picking up some stranger at a bar could be useful. For _you_ though, drastic measures need to be taken. I can peer into your life line and direct you towards the path of true love. Then we'll let said love run its course, yes?

"Your uncle tells me you're quite the hot head—"

Derek was about to protest, a snarl rumbling in his chest. But Adrian doesn't flinch; he simply clicks his tongue and tuts at him.

"I see he was very much correct with the assumption. As I was saying, your less than welcoming disposition has sent many admirers running towards the hills. Maybe if the stick, so to speak, was thrown your way for a change then you'd be much more obliged to fetch it. Chase after it. Instead of having your uncle throw you around to potential mates and have it end in disaster. Which I could only guess happens ten times out of ten, am I right?"

The prince diverts his gaze. He knows he's a bit of jerk but that's practically his birth right, damn it! Besides he doesn't like being offered up like some hot piece of man meat. It's a little emasculating if you ask him.

Adrian clamps both his hands over Derek's and closes his eyes. This perhaps is the weirdest palm reading the prince has ever witnessed. But when has his life ever been not weird?

Then the psychic speaks out, in a voice that does not sound anything like his own.

"_A wild tide will hurtle into the steady shore_

_Out of season. Unexpected._

_Broken glass. An open door._

_Don't be so quick to judge, for what will soon appear_

_Because what was once disliked,_

_Will become what you'll hold so dear."_

Adrian lets go of his hand and a pleased smile spreads across his face. Derek found it all very foreboding.

And fucking creepy.

The psychic then rose silently to his feet and escorted the prince out without another word.

**x-x-x-x**

Derek was driving along a public access road because the Royal High Road took him twice as long to get to the garage even if he punches his baby, his black Camaro into full gear. That's just sad because what's the point of even building a Royal High Road if it turns out to be less convenient to take?

Monarchic Politics. He'll never fully understand.

His car squeals past a turnpike and the prince grinds his teeth together when he finds the road ahead suddenly congested with traffic a few meters before his exit.

Fan-_fucking_-tastic!

He switches gears and slows down until he comes to a rumbling halt.

**x-x-x-x**

Thirty whole minutes pass and the prince was close to leaving finger-shaped depressions on his dashboard from the way he was tonelessly, furiously drumming his fingers on it.

He glances at his rearview mirror and finds that the road immediately behind him was empty. Right there and then he made a decision.

And it was the single worst decision he had ever made in his entire existence.

The prince's car roared to life and he hastily gunned his baby, in reverse. He was turning back and heading up the pass to the stupid High Road. Derek was pretty sure he drove by a toll-regulated exit a couple of kilometers back. If he hurried, then maybe he could get to where he needed to be in under an hour.

He zoned out thinking about directions and how stubborn he had been for not just installing a damn GPS already. The Wolf Prince would argue that it would take away the _classic_ from his _classic car_—

And that's how he missed it. Because, really Derek must have seriously phased out to miss the fucking ugly-ass jeep that careened into the butt of his car.

It was shortly followed by the sound of taut metal folding over itself.

The impact of the collision was strong enough to shatter the glass of the driver's side window. The shards explode onto him instead of out, one piece snagging his cheek.

A cacophony of honking blared around him and he cringed and pressed his hands to his ears as his wolf senses were intensifying the sounds by a hundred manifolds.

Derek could feel his claws coming into existence and he opts to keep his seatbelt on because if not he was going to wolf-out and kill the _dipshit_ who rammed into him.

* * *

><p>Stiles Stilinski was going to be so fucking late, you don't even know!<p>

A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend had told Scott who told Stiles that they saw Lydia Martin take a bite out of a poisoned apple at lunch earlier that day. One of their school mates, a low level witch, who was jealous of Lydia's hotness decided to pull a Grimm one and snatched the girl's apple. Replacing it with one laced with _Everlasting Sleep Serum_ at the lunch line when Lydia wasn't looking. Being low level and all, Stiles was sure the effect won't manifest as quickly. Still, he dragged Scott into his jeep after class and floored it. And together, they headed out to the Martin's grass lands.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Stiles had been poring over the internet last night, researching clever ways to make Lydia fall in love with him and happened to read up on enchanted curses and life-saving kisses in passing. (Or yeah, he read _a lot_ about kissing, got really horny and for the briefest of minutes switched to porn but no one had to know.)

It has come to his attention that if Lydia were to fall ill, a round of tonsil hockey was in order. Stiles was just about electric with anticipation.

"How do you know Jackson hasn't already beaten you to the punch?" says Scott, snapping his friend out of his musings.

"Huh," Stiles took pause to think it over. "I don't."

He twists the steering wheel and takes a sharp left…

…

…and collides into another vehicle.

**x-x-x-x**

The two subsequently face-planted onto the windshield. Scott threw his arms over his face and cushioned most of the force while Stiles' forehead promptly smashed into the wheel leaving a nasty red blotch and a gash on the crook of his right eyebrow. Of course the junker didn't have airbags.

"SWEET MERCIFUL MOTHER OF GOD! What the hell happened?"

Stiles' ears were ringing, his vision was blurring and motherfuck everything was hurting!

Scott craned his head forward, squinted his eyes against swirls of smoke. "A Camaro happened, that's what." He croaked and it's like he swallowed some gravel or something.

Stiles fumbled with his seatbelt and tumbled out of his jeep. He was seething. Every single penny of birthday money he'd saved since he was five went into the purchase of his auto and he'd be damned if he wasn't gonna get any form of compensation.

He marched right up to the Camaro, twisted at an angle, caught in a half turn. Stiles peered into the driver's seat to find a dark haired man folded over himself.

"Hey, asshole! What the fuck do you think you're doing? I don't know if you've noticed but there isn't a damn U-turn on this godforsaken road! Hey, I'm talking to you. Hey, numbnuts, I'm talk—"

The guy sharply looked at him then. Their gazes connecting.

All the heat and blood drained from Stiles' face as he took in the sight of the scariest man he has ever seen in his entire life.

**x-x-x-x**

Scott's face was scrunched up in confusion as he watched Stiles scamper back into the jeep like he had caught on fire or something.

Or like he really needed to take a piss. Like _really_ badly.

"What's wrong? You were doing great! Well, up until you tucked tail and ran. Dude, what's wrong?"

Stiles cradled his head in his hands, his legs jittering up and down from the way he was nervously drumming his heels.

"I'm dead. I am so dead." He chanted it like a litany. "So fucking dead."

Scott slowly reached for his friend's shoulder to soothe him. The movement was quickly aborted when Stiles suddenly turned in his seat to face his friend full on, his brown eyes gone wild.

"Do you _know_ who that _is_?" he gestured frantically to the man who had now stepped out of the offending Camaro, stalking towards the jeep.

When Scott failed to supply a response, Stiles continued. "That's Derek _Hale_! Derek _The Big Bad Wolf _Hale. I rammed into the freakin' Black Prince of Beacon Hills' car. I'm royally screwed. I'm gonna end up in a fucking _dungeon_!"

* * *

><p>It didn't take long for traffic enforcers to swarm around the crash site and usher both drivers to the precinct. They snatched up the kid driving the jeep and his floppy haired friend before Derek had the chance to mangle them both.<p>

Being prince and all, Derek was let off with a slap on the wrist and absolved of any offense. His Camaro was towed away for repair and a town car was immediately sent to fetch him.

The kid didn't have it as easy.

Derek would have felt sorry for him if the idiot didn't whammy his baby. The thought made his blood boil. And just like that, he was angry again. His eyes flickered between its natural green colorings to blue, in time with his pounding heart.

Still, he had to hand it to the kid. He had balls. The way he called Derek out, red-faced and determined. The prince couldn't help himself from drinking in the sight of the boy when he stuck his face in through the prince's window.

His mind's eye was quick to supply the details: red splotches on the boy's cheeks where they would hollow out, his tongue flicking and curling around his vindictive words, his long dark lashes fluttering around a pair of big, brown eyes…

Derek mentally kicked himself back to the present.

Speaking of the present, the prince was currently stood by the entrance of the precinct with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. They felt restless for reasons entirely unknown. At first he thought it was the anger but when he summoned up all his self-restraint to quell the feeling, he was baffled to find that it wasn't. Not at all. Not even close.

_Then what is it?_

Derek didn't have to wait very long until a white Ford Escalade rolled in the driveway and he perked up, shoving off of the wall he had been leaning against. He had one hand wrapped around a door handle, said door halfway opened already when the prince dared a backwards glance towards the front desk, at the young man arguing with one of the traffic enforcers. And just before he slipped out onto the drive, his ears twitched and the conversation going on twenty feet behind him filtered into his hearing.

"_What's your name, son?"_

"_Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski." _

"_**Stiles Stilinski**__? You're joking right? What the hell kind of made-up name is that?"_

"_The kind that's mine. And no, it's __**not**__ made up."_

"_Stiles isn't his real first name. He just likes being called Stiles. If that helps," adds the floppy-haired kid meekly._

"_Thanks for having my back, Scott." Stiles (so that's his name, huh?) snapped, sarcasm heavy in his tone._

"_What __**is**__ your real name then?" the traffic enforcer pressed on. A driver's license was consequently shoved in his face. "Wow, you're parents must have hated you."_

All of his frustrations seeped out of him then and Derek chuckled darkly in amusement. Why he found it all amusing in the first place was beyond him. But he did.

He fluidly slipped into the backseat of the town car only to find his driver twisted around in his, (blatantly) eyeing the usually surly Wolf Prince in poorly-concealed awe. That's when Derek noticed he was still laughing, lips upturned in a toothy grin.

"What's so funny?" the driver cautioned.

Derek quickly schooled his features. "Nothing. Start the car." He said, with a tiny bit more menace than was strictly necessary.

**x-x-x-x**

The great double doors of the main hall slammed closed, letting the High Regent Peter, and his small party, know that his nephew was home.

Sure enough, Derek strode in after a breath with his back ramrod straight, fists clenched, eyebrows knitted together. It was fast becoming a trademark look on him.

Peter gave his nephew a sympathizing, fatherly look. Derek came to a halt and nodded to his uncle. The young man's expression was inscrutable but he appeared to want to say something. Before he could however, Peter cut him off.

"You don't have to explain, I already know." The prince's uncle then held out an elegant finger over to where Adrian Harris was having tea a few seats away.

Derek rolled his eyes. "I'll be in my room."

"Of course you will. But be down for dinner I have to discuss some things with you. Particularly about the upcoming ball."

"Another _ball_?" the Wolf Prince snarled, incredulous.

"Yes, another. Now be off with you! I don't want you dampening my mood, not over tea time. Certainly not before I've had my bourbon."

Derek spun around to stalk off to his quarters and quite rightly too because that's when Kate showed up. She was the ballsy (and slightly psychotic) courtier/sister of the Kingdom Weapons Keeper. Kate's been after him for years now. The feeling was not mutual.

"I love it when he's all riled up," the young woman exclaimed when she caught sight of Derek, ducking behind a corner, stomping as he went. "Say Harris, can you look into _my_ life line and see if that sweet piece of ass is in it?"

Adrian chuckled into his cup. "Oh, Ms. Argent. You are indeed lovely enough to hold your own beside His Highness. But I'm afraid it's, well, it's your eyes."

"What about my eyes? They aren't sparkly enough?"

"No, my dear. They aren't _brown _enough."

The courtier gave a derisive snort and shrugged her shoulders. It didn't really faze her much.

Adrian smiled another one of his knowing smiles and proceeded to down his tea. He had counted up to twenty before he heard muted footsteps continue on towards the general direction of the Wolf Prince's quarters.

* * *

><p>-2-<p>

His jeep was _totaled_. His driver's license was confiscated. He had incurred a ludicrous amount in car damages. His ego was bruised. And to top it all off he didn't even get to kiss Lydia!

Well, as it turns out, he really didn't need to when Scott told Stiles what Allison told him.

Apparently, Jackson had sticky fingers and along with grabbing ass he also had the knack of snagging fruit. He pocketed the poisoned apple to eat before lacrosse practice; Jackson subsequently passed out on the field. (Stiles had underestimated the witch, so sue him.) Lydia had alternated between giving her boyfriend wet, open-mouthed, spell-breaking kisses and administering CPR. All of which didn't work, especially the CPR because technically he wasn't _not_ breathing. Just _sleeping_. Her fingers scrambled frantically over the touch screen of her iPhone, calling for paramedics when Danny came running out onto the field to aid his best friend. He dropped to his knees but his knee pads weren't fastened tight enough and so he slipped. Danny didn't have enough time to right himself and face-planted onto Jackson. Mouth hit mouth and to everyone's surprise, the blond boy had awoken.

"_That's_ why they haven't been hanging out today. Heh, awwwwkwarrrd!"

It's been two days since the crash. Stiles still doesn't have a car so he chooses to walk home because one: it'd be stupid to hitch a ride with Scott on his bike. And two: he'd rather die than have his dad pick him up in the patrol car. Nothing repelled girls more than an Emissary to the Kingdom Hale's Royal Guard mobile. He might as well have been riding around in a pumpkin.

"Yeah. Lydia's been giving them both the stink eye all through fourth period. Y'know, the class all three of them have together?" Scott slowly shook his head from side to side.

"Excellent!"

Stiles' best friend stopped and stared at him like he suddenly had three heads that breathed fire and were covered in scales.

"What's with the face? It's the I-have-an-awesome-but-underhanded-scheme-for-my-personal-gain face."

"It's called the I-have-an-awesome-but-underhanded-scheme-for-my-personal-gain face for a reason. Because, dude, I _totally_ have an awesome but underhanded scheme for my personal gain… scheme." And Stiles proceeded to pull out a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

He smoothened out the creases and triumphantly shoved it into Scott's hands.

The floppy-haired boy eyed it like an animal that would bite before he started reading. It was a Kingdom-wide Summons.

"Dearest people of Beacon Hills, a grand Winter Ball will be held in honor of His Majesty… blah blah blah blah… this Saturday… blah blah blah… unfortunately this event is _by invitation only_." Scott looked between the summons in his hands and his best friend who had the biggest shit-eating grin plastered on his pasty face.

"I take it this party has something to do with the plan?"

A nod.

Scott let out a sigh. "I don't want to be a downer but—"

"You seem to be doing that a lot lately though."

"Stiles, man, I happen to know_ for a fact_ that you didn't get an invite. Same way I didn't get one either."

"That's irrelevant because you're still going."

"Yeah, only because Allison made me her plus one."

"Exactly!"

"What?"

"You're going as someone's plus one. And so will I!"

"No offense, Stiles, but how crazy should one be to want to ask _you_ to be their plus one?"

"Hey, I take offense. Really, I do. But for your information, _Danny_ asked me."

"_Danny_ actually asked _you_?"

"Well, no. Not exactly. I asked Danny… to ask me to be his plus one. And not so much ask did I coerce. But it's a triple win."

"How?"

"I go with Danny to make Jackson jealous. Jackson will realize he's been pretty much in gay-love with his best friend since forever. They'll hook up, double win right there. Then I'll sweep Lydia over her heartbroken little feet and that brings us up to a three-way Mexican fiesta!"

"I think you mean four-way Mexican stand-off. And don't people get shot in one of those?"

''No one is going to get shot, Scott. Trust me."

"I have a _very _bad feeling about this."

* * *

><p>"This is a joke, right?"<p>

Derek once again found himself sagging in one of the high-backed leather chairs in the psychic's office.

"I'm afraid not, Your Highness. If it were, I'd be laughing my ass off. But my rear is pretty much still intact. Apparently, you didn't get the message last time you were here. Maybe I wasn't clear enough."

"I got it, okay. Something about crashing tides, sea shores, glass and other crackpot bullshit that rhymes. What do those have to do with _anything_? Or specifically my – _Christ_ – love life?"

Adrian pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Just give me your hand and I'll try another reading."

The Wolf Prince obeyed with just a little bit less resistance than before.

"_The wind doth blows in your hurried seek._

_A response won't be far, it will land on thine cheek."  
><em>

That was about as helpful as the first reading, which honestly up until now, was worth like jack-shit.

"I don't have to be psychic to know how ridiculous you think all this is. The emotion is dancing around your face."

"No one needs to be psychic to point out that this whole thing _right here_ is _absolutely_ ridiculous!"

With that, Derek storms off in a flurry of leather jacket and a string of profanities.

**x-x-x-x**

Just beyond the outskirts of the Hale castle was a forest land. And God, did Derek love to run in it.

That's where he was now, running like his life depended on it with his shirt and jacket discarded somewhere in a clearing. The cold wind slapped against his face, his bare chest and the feeling was phenomenal. He shot through trees, leapt over huge rock piles and reveled at the sound of crunching leaves beneath his feet. If he were the type that laughed over things like this, he'd be barking out in jubilance.

But he wasn't so he rejoiced in silence.

Derek was coming up to a stone path when he heard it, a frustrated grunting noise. It sounded a lot like a person getting beaten.

Now the Wolf Prince wasn't particularly the helping-hand sort of guy but Gallantry was basically Princelihood 101, bro. And the Hales were very strict abiders of the Royal Code. If what he was hearing was any indication, then he most likely had a 1004739 on his hands. Or a Code Purple, his sister, Princess Laura would say.

_Purple, the color your skin makes when it connects with a fist._

Derek hikes back into the wood trusting his senses to lead the way. And he spots them.

There were two boys enclosed in a clearing made entirely of a circle of sentinel trees. One of them appeared to be holding a long stick, at the end of which was a shallow net. The boy with the stick used the net to pick up a white ball from a medium-sized mound of white balls at his feet and proceeded to fling said ball at his companion, who was standing ten feet away. The other boy peculiarly had both hands tied behind his back and caught the onslaught of balls with either his face, chest, shoulder, thigh, knee and every other bit of him that was amenable to bludgeoning. Yet despite it, Derek noted that the bound boy made no intention of ducking out of the way.

It was all pretty funny really.

Then the two started talking.

"I'm pretty sure this isn't what they mean when they say _strength training_," the boy taking the hits grunts.

"Naw, man. It's not." The other answers, amusement apparent in his tone.

"You're getting me back for that explosion in chemistry class earlier today, aren't you?"

"Glad you caught on."

Out of some strange pull of curiosity, Derek stalked closer. He circled to the left, angling his head for a better view.

Something was strangely familiar about the two figures. He wracked his brain for information and just as he was coming up with an answer, a multitude of things happened all at once.

He heard the distinct sound of a wrist snapping, a wooden stick cutting through air with a swoosh, a ball hurtling from a net. Derek watched in morbid (slow motion) fascination as the boy with his hands tied behind his back flopped to the forest floor, ducking away from the ball rocketing through empty space. It crackled upon hitting a tree trunk and ricocheted off tangent…

…and flew right into the prince's face.

* * *

><p>Stiles watched the rogue ball bounce off a tree and fly into something.<p>

Some_one_.

Yes, a _someone_ because as the ball disappeared through a gap between two branches, a loud _thunk_ echoed through the forest (like something hitting skull) followed by an exclamation of pain, halfway-sounding like a howl.

Suddenly, the game wasn't all the fun anymore. Scott threw his friend a horrified look from where he lay. Stiles motioned for him to stay down.

The latter gripped his lacrosse stick close to his person and crept toward the edge of the clearing. He drew it over his head, preparing to strike out when—

"Don't you fucking _dare_! Put down the stick or I'll rip your throat out. With my _teeth_."

Stiles jumped three feet into the air. His heart leapt into his throat and he choked on his own spit.

When he finished collecting his manhood, he let out a shaky breath and said, "okay, okay! Jesus H. Christ, dude, what the hell are you even doing out here? You scared the crap out of me!"

He wasn't blessed with a response.

Stiles took in the sight of the stranger, who was shirtless by the way, in front of him. The man was doubled over, one hand resting on his knee while the other he used to rub at his left cheek.

"Oh, man. Oh, shit, I'm so sorry. Let me take a look at that."

The boy hobbled over close, dropping his lacrosse stick. He proceeded to grip one of the other man's biceps to steady him. The stranger tensed but didn't put up a fight. Stiles took it as permission and brushed the man's hand away from his face.

The first thing he became aware of was a bruise the size of a ping-pong ball on the guy's high-set, left cheek bone. The second thing he became aware of was a pair of electric blue eyes, seemingly seeing through his soul. And the third thing?

Was that he was well into the breathing space of Derek _freakin'_ Hale.

Stiles froze. He literally, utterly turned as immobile as stone.

**x-x-x-x**

By some miracle, Scott was able to undo the knots his friend hand done him in. It wasn't much of a chore, really. Stiles couldn't tie a knot for shit. In all actuality, Scott could have _Houdini_-ed himself free ages ago but didn't and went about humoring Stiles because that was the kind of friend Scott was.

And yeah, he kind of deserved to get his ass handed to him after the chem. lab explosion he inflicted. _Pretty funny shit right thurr!_

An immediate type of panic seized his senses though when minutes tick away two-by-two and Stiles still hasn't returned from where he had disappeared.

Scott raced over to the edge of the clearing and…

And…

…bore witness to _the _Mother-of-All stare downs in the entire history of forever (read: for double emphasis) of epic proportions.

Stiles looked more deer-in-the-headlights than an _actual_ deer in the headlights. He wasn't blinking. Or if he was, Scott barely registered the movement. He followed his friend's gaze, which trained back to a man he has now come to know as Beacon Hill's Black Prince, Derek Hale.

Scott couldn't be entirely sure but he'd bet an arm and a leg that the two haven't moved from where they stood clinging to each other for the whole time Scott had been untying himself… _and then some_.

A few more breaths later, someone finally spoke.

It was Derek. "Next time, get your balls out of my face." Every word laced with venom.

Scott did not know what supernatural force or other made his friend say what he said next.

"I take it from your _pleasant _disposition not much of _that _happens very often, huh?"

If the silence was deafening before, it was nothing compared to how damn near murderous it was now. The frustration, pulsating off of the prince, shot out like a living creature – palpable and gesticulating in the forest's downy gloom. Scott was sure he and Stiles were going to _die_ here.

Then Derek suddenly shoved Stiles away, none too gently, but it didn't appear like he intended to hurt the boy.

"You've got a mouth on you." The prince said and his eyes burned with such intensity, it was like they were glowing.

Stiles quickly countered, "You'd be surprised."

Scott, the accidental spectator, nearly dropped his mandible in unabated astonishment. Despite getting all shook up though, he had enough wits to register Derek's expression shift to one of open shock then back to grave in about a fraction of a second. The Wolf Prince may have even blushed, too but Scott could have easily imagined that. He was positive that the whole conversation looked like it would take an even weirder turn if it dared to continue. And as if sensing it too, Derek nodded a farewell, turned around and jogged back from where he came. Effectively putting an end to whatever the hell it was going on between him and Stiles.

* * *

><p>-3-<p>

Saturday morning.

"So let me get this straight," Sheriff Stilinski's forehead was thrown into folds as he spoke the words, slowly, like he didn't want to be misunderstood… by a mentally handicapped person he happened to be sharing the conversation with.

Said person was his son, Stiles.

"You want _me_ to let _you_ go to a ball, hosted by the guy whose car you smashed into not a week ago. (The repair of which I'm paying for by the way,) because a nice boy asked you to go with him so you can "hook-up" with a cute girl who you know for a fact will be there, because word around the school is she's coming? On top of that, I shouldn't even expect you to be back before curfew? Did I get all that right? Is that what you're asking of me?"

"Yes."

The sheriff sighed for what must have been the 85,000th time.

"You honestly expect me to give you permission?"

"Yes."

"Who's the _boy_ that asked you out again?"

"Danny."

"Who's the _girl_ you're planning on dumping the boy for?"

"Lydia."

"Well, do you even have anything to wear to the damn ball?"

"Yes."

"I'm maybe out of my mind here but… okay, you can go."

"Awesome!"

**x-x-x-x**

Scott fumbled with the buttons on his rented out tuxedo. It was a bit big on him and it smelled a little bit like mothballs but it was… serviceable. He didn't have enough money to buy a new one and he was too stubborn to go looking for a fairy godmother on such short notice. Besides Scott didn't think he'd have enough patience to sit through the mandatory musical number they chose to make their presences known.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Romeo has just entered the building! And watch out 'cause I'm coming after my Juliet."

Scott rolled his eyes and looked over his shoulder to where Stiles was walking in through the door of Scott's bedroom. He gawped at his best friend.

"I clean up good, don't I?"

"Holy crap, Stiles. Where did you get _that_?" Scott sauntered over to his friend. His arms outstretched, straining for a feel of Stiles' entrancing suit. It hugged his friend in _all _the right places. And wait… _did he just think that?_

The tip of Scott's ring finger brushed against the fabric of Stiles' jacket before the latter abruptly flinched away.

"Hey, watch the threads, dude! And not just 'cause this baby was especially hard to get, let me tell you. But if you hadn't noticed, they're kind of magical. The moment Lydia sees me waltz in wearing these, she won't be able to refuse." And Stiles punctuated the sentence with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

"Stiles… what's that suit made out of?"

A smirk. "Moonlight."

"You evil, scheming son-of-a-bitch."

"I know, it keeps me awake at night."

"Remind me again how _you're _the leading man of the leading man in this story?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Nothing."

**x-x-x-x**

At exactly 09:34:29 PM, Danny drove up to the McCall residence in his dreamy little silver Audi to pick up Stiles.

"Why am I picking you up from Scott's place again?"

"Just 'cause. How do I look?"

"Good, I suppose."

That was a bit of a lame observation in Stiles' opinion because he looked fucking amazing. He pondered on how Danny wasn't turning into putty from the mere sight of his suit but Stiles' attention span for things like that was so freaking short that he dropped it altogether the moment he got into the car.

(Unbeknownst to Stiles, Danny had apparently already shared true love's kiss with – you guessed it – Jackson, thus making him immune to the super suit.)

The drive up to the Hale kingdom could be included in the Top Ten Most Awkward Car Rides in the Entire History of Car Rides.

* * *

><p>The Wolf Prince was inspecting his reflection in the enchanted looking glass. Enchanted in that it doubles as a fashion catalog, which does a live preview of possible outfits available for the season, catered entirely to the preference of the person looking into it.<p>

"Black on black on black, how… _predictable_."

Adrian stepped out from behind the full-length looking glass, propped up on a wooden frame and gave Derek a once over.

"I like black."

"I can _see_ that. Not that it doesn't look good on you. But there are a lot of other colors out there, too, y'know. It would do you wonders to explore the possibilities."

"Don't tell me you're here to give me another palm reading."

"Since you asked so _nicely_, I won't tell you."

Without much ado, the psychic grabbed Derek's hand. The prince tried to twist free but it was all in vain. For a lanky, pencil-neck, Adrian had quite a grip on him.

"_Pay no mind to the garish Sun,_

_Because your fair Romeo is here."  
><em>

The moment the reading ended, Derek immediately snatched his hand back. "You run out of psychic juice that you're stealing lines from Shakespeare now?" he scoffed.

"Yes and I hope to God it works." Adrian snapped, utterly frustrated. "Now march yourself out there, your public awaits!"

**x-x-x-x**

Derek eyed the crowd disdainfully from one of the many balconies in the Great Hall. He never enjoyed the company of any of the people in the sea of pretentious ball gowns and monkey suits. In fact, he hardly even knew anyone down there.

Balls are a complete waste of time, he figures. What does one do at a ball exactly? Apart from getting drunk, or hooking-up or mingling?

And seriously, who _mingles_ nowadays?

The prince silently contemplated the possibility of sneaking out when an odd glinting out of the corner of his eyes disturbs his musings. He cranes his neck and adjusts his vision trying to spot the mysterious oddity amidst a mass oddities, mind, until he zeroes in on one of the guests.

It was… _Stiles_? Yes, Stiles. And he was… _shimmering_? Hell, the kid was practically glowing!

Derek's eyes widened. The boy was dressed in an unassuming blue-black suit. It was crisp and elegant and deceptively plain but the prince saw it for what it was.

It was tailored entirely in moonlight. Most of it was done in a shade of Midnight interwoven with subtle Dusk – the two hues blending together perfectly. If Derek squinted enough, he could actually make out the soft embroidery of Evening. And to his surprise, the lining and inseam were done in Twilight.

The boy's pale – no _fair _– skin was put on display against his clothes. And the Wolf Prince was momentarily stunned at how beautiful Stiles looked. Every other person in the room appeared dull next to him. Every other thing, _everything_ appeared dull compared to him.

Stiles was standing in front of a twenty foot window that peered out into the night. He was framed in stars and Derek thought idly if the boy would look as good in the morning. Under the sun and…

It hit him like a renegade freight train. Everything the psychic had said flooded into his consciousness, everything that had happened in the last few days: the car crash, the unexpected meeting in the woods, the ball. Broken glass, open doors, _Romeo_.

Oh, God.

"It's _Stiles_? You have got to be _shitting _me."

"No, my dear boy."

Derek wasn't so surprised to find Adrian standing stoically next to him.

"What happens now?" the prince tries.

"Well for once, Your Highness, why don't _you _tell me?"

* * *

><p>Whoever said Lydia Martin was coming to the ball had lied. Stiles had every intention of hunting the lying bastard down and killing him in a, quite possibly, gory and creative fashion. Only… his heart was barely half into it.<p>

As expected, Danny and Jackson hooked-up – the pair deserting Stiles altogether which was cool and all because Stiles really didn't want to bear witness to any of _that_.

He spent an indeterminate amount of time by the punch bowl. In truth, he didn't much care whether or not Lydia would notice him tonight, whether or not he saw her. (Although granted, it would've been a plus.)

Stiles just couldn't help but have his mind fall onto someone else. Not a single soul knows he couldn't stop thinking about that other day in the woods, couldn't shake the image of Derek – shirtless – from his mind.

Stiles ran all the way home after the confrontation, dodging all of Scott's questions and praying to the Heavens above that his friend didn't see his erection straining against his lacrosse shorts.

The embarrassment would have killed him for sure.

Stiles gazed out onto the dance floor, he spotted Scott slow-dancing with Allison. He smiled to himself. _At least one of them was having a good time_.

He quickly decided he just about had enough of the punch, enough of the party and enough of feeling so monumentally depressed.

He turned on his heels and wouldn't you know it? –barreled into a solid figure.

"Oh _fuck me_!"

"You sure about that?"

"Listen, smartass—"

The rest of the statement died on his lips as he came nose to nose with the Wolf Prince himself.

"That's three for three now, Stilinksi."

"Oh. My. _God_. Don't kill me." His cheeks were burning, he was sure.

Derek chuckled deep and Stiles' stomach did a funny little cartwheel.

"I'm not going to kill you, Stiles. Not then and certainly not now. Not with all these people watching."

Stiles sputtered.

"It was a joke."

"It's not very funny. Dished out in very poor taste, too, I might add."

"I seem to be running in to you everywhere. Are you stalking me, Stiles?"

"No," the boy replied, too quickly. (Out of panic not guilt, okay?) To rebound, he tried being clever, "are _you_?" Operative word being: tried

"If I said yes, would you run away?"

"If my legs didn't just turn into Jell-O I could, maybe… not. Not really, no."

"Good to know."

"Okay. So… what do we do now?"

"We hook-up. What did you_ think_ we'd be doing, Stiles?"

And Derek has to give it to him because the boy _actually_ takes the time to think about it. Stiles sucks in his bottom lip and knits his eyebrows together in concentration.

"Uh, something along the lines of..." he starts after a minute. "well, you could sweep me off my feet, for one and we could ride off into the sunset on your mighty steed of a Camaro then share True Love's Kiss?"

"No and no. Because _A_: my car is still undergoing repair, thanks to you."

"Point."

"And _B_: it's the middle of the night, there's no sunset to ride off into."

"Oh, right. Just the kissing then?" Stiles asked sheepishly.

The Wolf Prince smirks and realizes much to his delight that he was gripping the boy's waist, a consequence of when they collided into each other but a minute ago.

Suddenly, he's seized by a moment of inspiration.

The prince stares hotly - totally predatory even - into the younger's eyes before he ducks his head and ghosts his lips close to Stiles' right ear.

"We can't do any of those things. Not right now, anyway. But tell you what... I could carry you up to my room, undress you with my teeth and fuck you two or three times until the sunrises."

He slowly pulls back and watches in rapt fascination as Stiles' pupils dilate in equal parts arousal and fear.

"So, what'll it be?"

"After you, Your Highness."

Every guest startled at the sound of the Derek Hale's howling laughter.

**x-x-x-x**

Contrary to popular belief the two _did_ in fact share True Love's Kiss and several of True Love's Orgasms a couple of times in one night.

**x-x-x-x**

The morning after the ball, Adrian Harris finds a rather large gift basket on his desk.

* * *

><p><strong>Edit &amp;&amp; AN #2:** I re-read the story and fixed a couple of typos and revised a couple of parts. Only by a little, I swear. But It's still largely unbeta'd, any other mistakes are still definitely my own. Thank you for the follows and favorites. And especially the comments! Those are like the cheese to my macaroni you guise. I appreciate them, truly. To those asking for a part deux, I have something in the works. But It's not exactly a continuation, something like a B-side but not quite. I'll post it as a new story sometime next week because I have to go through a couple of exams. School, ugh.

I'm glad you crazy kids enjoyed this, like I equally enjoyed writing it.

I seriously love AU's. I ship myself with AU's so hard! I wouldn't be opposed to anyone leaving prompts in the reviews section or a PM for "AU Derek/Stiles". Whether it be dark, PWP, drama, rom-com, kink, mystery, crime, noir, poem format, etc. - I'll do it! No, seriously, I'll do it.


	2. It Came Upon a Midday Death Hold Grip

**Title:** It Came Upon a Midday Death Hold Grip (A Once Upon a Car Crash Side Story)

**Fandom:** Teen Wolf

**Pairings:** Jackson/Danny

**Disclaimer:** Teen Wolf is this show on MTV. Unfortunately, I like watching it with slash goggles on.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** is WIP a warning? _Fairy Tale!_AU, utter crack!, swearing, accidental boy kissing then deliberate boy kissing, bastardization of fairy tale Happily Ever After's and the usual crak!fic hi-jinx

**Author's Note:**Concomitant ass-crackery with _Once Upon a Car Crash_. I suggest you read that first. Though this can be read as a standalone.

I'm putting this here first while I find it a proper place. I've also (perhaps inappropriately) inserted it into my ongoing song fic Bigger Boys and Stolen Sweethearts (which although is composed of drabble, it is a linear story in its entirety.) I'll soon remove this from there too.

Please, please, please let me know what you guys think of this one. Most importantly, though... Enjoy! ^^,

Unbeta'd all mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p><strong>Summary:<strong>

"_A rattling in [Jackson's] chest tells him something is missing. He double checks and sees a physician and upon radiographic analysis, his thoracic x-ray not only revealed a superbly well-aligned spine but a radioluscent, saucer-shaped void in his heart."_

* * *

><p><em>THIS IS A SNIPPET:<em>

****x-x-x-x****

**1**

**x-x-x-x**

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, tell me, do these jeans make me look like a douchebag?"

"If I said yes, would you break my front-face surface with your fist again like last time?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"Whether or not you _would_ say yes."

"Then it's a no."

Jackson Whittemore was the fairest of them all. Seriously, this boy was made out of sunbeams and stardust. He very nearly nabbed the title of People's Sexiest Man of the Year last year. _Nearly_.

This year? It's pretty much in the bag.

But of late, Jackson has been feeling rather off. So off that the fifteen minutes he spends styling his golden blond hair has been sourly reduced to twelve. A rattling in his chest tells him something is missing. He double checks and sees a physician and upon radiographic analysis, his thoracic x-ray not only revealed a superbly well-aligned spine but a radioluscent, saucer-shaped void in his heart.

Needless to say, the boy tried everything to fill it in. He charmed himself a girlfriend, ate heartily almost at every meal time and listened to inspirational Christian music along with his usual songs in the Indie Rock Persuasion playlist on his iPod. Good God, he's even tried wake-boarding and hang-gliding. Although why the last two, no one knows.

But none of those things keep him from rattling like an empty soup can, all nickels and dimes, every time he sachets down the school hallways.

It gets so perplexing that Jackson one day corners his best friend, Danny, in the locker room after a grueling Lacrosse match to confide in him.

"Dan, do you know what this is?" and he extricates his chest x-ray from a brown paper envelope. (Jackson had taken to carrying it around with him.) He shows it to the other boy.

Danny looks it over seriously before sighing in defeat. "I'm sorry but I don't know. Tell you what though – my neighbor is a radiologist not to mention a potions master. I can take this over to him for a diagnosis, if you'd like. Pay a little extra and he may even provide a cure. How's that sound?"

"That's awesome, bro. Let me know what he thinks a.s.a.p. Oh and, a couple of us are going to the bowling alley Friday night. You coming?"

"No," is Danny's shy answer. The taller boy shifts from one foot to the other. "I have something to do that night. Maybe next time."

"Don't tell me you're going out on a date with what's-his-name again. He looks like he belongs in a traveling freak show."

"Hey, lay off on the insults. I don't go around hating on your romantic choices."

"Yeah that and you don't stare at my girlfriend's coin slot, too. So… my bad." And Jackson lifts both arms in mock surrender. "But seriously you could do so much better."

"I know, that's why I dumped his sorry ass. I'm actually… seeing someone else that night."

Something in Jackson's well-toned chest gave an odd stutter.

"_Really_? Who?" And he swears it isn't curiosity in his tone. Nor suspicion. And a couple of other things that he will not name. (Because he doesn't know what they're called, okay?)

"Stiles."

"WHAT?"

**TBC**


End file.
